Over the next few months, the paparazzi swarmed Carolyn like locusts. As she walked down the street, they would get in her face and shout, “You whore! You ugly bitch!” Oftentimes, she would call RoseMarie and reveal some of the things they said to her. “This is ridiculous,” Carolyn lamented. “If I don’t leave the house before eight A.M., they’re waiting for me. Every morning. They chase me down the street.” Carolyn grew more reclusive, less willing to leave the apartment. But the paradox is that the more mysterious she became, the more the public yearned to know more about her.
For the paparazzi, money drove the entire operation. Victor Malafronte, who stalked John for years, claimed they could demand $500 to $1,000 for an exclusive picture of John and Carolyn. While that amount may not sound like much, a photographer could sell a photo to multiple newspapers and magazines, both in the United States and around the world. Therefore, he could end up making between $15,000 and $20,000 with a single picture. Malafronte remained unapologetic about hunting John and later Carolyn. “It’s hard to feel sorry for a guy who is so rich, good-looking, and a Kennedy,” he said matter-of-factly.
Not all the press that Carolyn received was negative, however. In November, she and John stepped out for their first formal function at the Whitney Museum’s thirtieth anniversary gala, an event that prompted the New York Post to crown them New York’s “king and queen.” A woman said, “She’s a lot like Jackie. Not the looks, exactly, but the bearing. She has a presence—gracious, warm, but with that Jackie aura that gently reminds you not to get too close.” More often, however, stories appeared from “reliable sources” claiming that she and John were breaking up or that Carolyn was pregnant. The New York Post even announced that if they had a son, they planned to name him John F. Kennedy III; if a daughter, Jacqueline.
What worried Carolyn most of all was what journalists might dig up about her past. She had led a private life, but now everything that she did or had done long ago seemed to show up in print. Her alarm increased when, only a month after their marriage, the New York Post ran a story claiming that she was illegally subletting her $600-a-month East Village apartment to one of her friends.
Michael hoped that John and Carolyn’s marriage in September 1996 would ease hostilities. Perhaps Carolyn would be more secure once she was John’s wife. She would likely get involved in charity events and maybe even set up a foundation. But none of those possibilities materialized. She actually seemed less happy after the wedding than before. “This is not what I signed up for,” she complained to a George colleague, referring to the constant presence of paparazzi scrutinizing her every move. If anything, the pressure caused her to spend more time at the magazine and immerse herself even deeper in office politics.
Things grew so strained that even Christmas became a source of tension. As the 1996 holiday season approached, Michael and John agreed to follow their usual pattern, giving modest gifts to the staff and writing checks to a handful of special people. A few weeks before Christmas, Michael had his assistant tell John that they needed to pick out gifts, but he never heard back. Soon after, he saw John and Carolyn handing out lavish gifts to the staff. Carolyn had spent thousands of dollars trying to find the perfect gift for each employee: engraved pens, boutique handbags, expensive clothing, and jewelry. RoseMarie received stacked boxes and garment bags on her desk, along with a check for $5,000. Adding insult to injury, they even handed out gifts to Michael’s staff. They had excluded Michael from the process entirely. “It was just an effort to undermine me,” he reflected. “I was furious.”
After the Christmas debacle, the two men were barely on speaking terms. The final straw came a few weeks later, in January 1997, over Michael’s handling of ancillary income streams. He and John had always believed that George could not sustain itself solely as a magazine and that they needed other revenue sources. “George’s paradigm on politics has long been applicable to television,” John told advertisers. “Martha Stewart Living has demonstrated television remains a potent means of selling subscriptions and extending the brand.” All the major networks expressed interest in striking a deal. Furthermore, if Hachette had its way, the company would have moved John over to television not only to generate more income but also to nudge him out of the editor’s chair in order to become more visible. Berman was in the process of negotiating book deals and television rights, but he knew that John wanted to limit his time in front of the camera.
John understood that he would be a big draw, but he still wanted to be taken seriously as an editor and not as a celebrity. He told Berman that he would be willing to make a brief appearance at the beginning and end of a show, but that was all. When the networks asked if John would participate, Michael’s response always remained the same: “Yes, but in a small way.” According to Berman, they struck a deal with NBC in which John would introduce a one-hour George special and then reemerge briefly at the end. “He would say hello and good-bye,” Berman said. “He had full approval of everything he would say. His name would not appear in the title. He would not be asked to promote it.”
As clear as these conditions seemed, misunderstandings arose over what exactly John’s role would be. Berman saw his partner’s role as limited, no more intrusive than his appearance on Murphy Brown to promote the first issue. But John worried that he was being pitched as the host of the show. “We can do a George television show,” he told RoseMarie, “and I will promote it, but I am not Jerry Seinfeld. I am not going to host a TV show. It’s not what I want to do.”
One day in February, John marched into Michael’s office and grabbed the folder on his desk containing all the documents related to the deal. He then declared, “We are not doing any of this.” As they struggled over the folder, John tugged at Berman’s shirt and ripped his cuff. “This is it!” he shouted at Michael. “I’ll be the editor, and you can be the publisher. That’s the way it’s going to be.” Berman retorted that John had better come up with a good reason for canceling the negotiations. “I took care of it,” John stated coldly. “I told them that you were doing this behind my back.” With that, all of Berman’s frustrations with John and Carolyn boiled over. “When you come in the office, you’re unrecognizable!” he hollered. “You’re exhausted. You’re unfocused. Whatever your problems, keep them at home. Don’t let them spill over into the office. That’s all I ask.” Michael then ripped into Carolyn, repeating his familiar refrain, “Get her the hell out of the office.”
John, caught off guard by Michael’s accusations and seemingly unrelated attack on his wife, rushed to her defense. “You have no idea!” he shouted back. “That’s not true. Don’t say that about her. She has legitimate friends in this office.” He told Berman that he was jealous because they liked her but did not like him. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Why would you try to ruin that? I can’t tell her what to do.”
Berman snapped. “Her behavior is deplorable!” he shouted.
Stunned, John turned and ran out of Michael’s office, but Berman followed close behind. Of all the fierce arguments that Michael and John had had in the past, this one was by far the loudest and most intense. To those who witnessed the scene, Berman appeared out of control. He stood outside John’s office, roaring, “Open the fucking door! Open this door!” He then grabbed a letter opener from RoseMarie’s desk and tried picking the lock. Michael claims to have no recollection of what happened after failing to gain entry into John’s office. But according to multiple sources, before Berman fled the area, he confiscated John’s appointment calendar from RoseMarie’s desk. “Do you fucking believe this?” Michael grumbled as he passed by Matt Berman. “He ripped my shirt!”
Somehow John pulled himself together and immediately returned to business as usual. He called to have the lock changed on his door and then, as if nothing had happened, held an editorial meeting with Rich Blow and Biz Mitchell a few minutes later. While they talked in his office, the locksmith started removing th
e old lock cylinder and installing a new one. Suddenly Michael reappeared and instructed the locksmith to change his lock too. John managed to get his lock changed with a simple phone call; his cofounder was told he needed to submit a work order. Michael stomped away, only to return a few minutes later to plead his case to the locksmith. “Why can’t you just do it?” he asked. “Why can’t you just change my lock?” The man held his ground, emphasizing again that he would need the proper paperwork. “Maybe I’ll call David Pecker, then,” Michael threatened. According to Blow, “John’s face was filled with rage.” He dared Michael to make the call, knowing that such a move would only make Michael appear small and petty.
Meanwhile, RoseMarie was pacing nervously outside the office, searching for John’s appointment book. She confronted Michael, who denied taking it. After a few minutes, though, he showed up holding it. “Here. You left this in my office,” he muttered before tossing it on Rose’s desk. It’s unclear why Berman would have needed John’s calendar. Perhaps seizing his calendar represented a last desperate effort to assert control over John. Or perhaps Michael felt so enraged that he acted impulsively.
Berman retreated to his office, knowing that his friendship with John was now officially over and that he could no longer remain at George. Elinore Carmody contacted Hachette and complained that the fight between the cofounders had created a threatening work environment for the other employees. “Nobody can function like this,” she told Pecker, who then intervened and found Berman a job in another division of the company. As if to mark the end of their partnership, John bought out Michael’s 25 percent share, thus assuming half ownership of the magazine.
Not everyone was happy to see Michael leave. “You cannot underestimate the impact of Michael leaving,” reflected Elinore. Jean-Louis Ginibre, who served as the editorial director for Hachette, called “the divorce” between John and Michael “fateful,” adding, “When Berman left, something was lost in the mix.” Blow observed that Michael’s absence significantly hurt ad sales. “His relationship with John may have been deteriorating,” he claimed, “but Michael could articulate the vision of George, and he was a hell of a salesman.” These assessments were right. John and Michael had gone into business a decade earlier because they complemented each other: Berman, the professional businessman who, because of his background in public relations, was pitch perfect in making sales calls; John, the ubercelebrity who could open any door and dazzle people with his presence. As time went on, however, John became more comfortable in his editor’s role and began to trust his own journalistic instincts, even if the results continued to be mixed. But no matter what, he still needed someone with Michael’s talent for articulating the magazine’s message to advertisers. He needed more, not fewer, people in his inner circle who were not overpowered by his celebrity.
Both men were embarrassed about the way they had behaved. Two days after their falling-out, John delivered to Michael a new shirt along with a handwritten apology. He seemed surprised, not just that Berman had left but that he had stayed away. So many people clamored for inclusion in John’s life, and few ever walked out completely. Several months after Michael left George, John had a conversation with publicist Nancy Haberman. “At this point,” John said to her, “I really don’t remember what the issues were between us, and I think maybe it’s time we could go back to being friends.” Haberman, who was close to Berman, laughed and told him, “You’re out of your mind.” John made a similar overture to another mutual friend. “I really think we’re past this. Do you think Michael feels the same way?” Perhaps John hoped for Berman to return, but the colleague, knowing the emotional damage the incident had inflicted on Michael, doubted a reconciliation would ever happen. And the colleague was right. Michael never spoke with John again.
Looking back two decades later, Berman wishes that he had responded to John’s efforts to reach out. “I regret having lost control that day. I certainly knew better—we both did—but my professional life had just come crashing down,” he reflected. “John reached out a number of times over the next couple of years, but I never responded. I was still too angry.” Berman went on to have a very successful career as an early investor in a number of lucrative content-based digital platforms and, later, as the president of a boutique private equity firm. Berman quietly remembered the magazine around the twentieth anniversary of its founding by endowing an initiative for journalism students at a major American university to explore the intersection of politics and popular culture. “I wanted to give back by encouraging a new generation to be able to build on our initial premise,” he reflected. Now he teaches his sons not to hold on to anger, “since time is a luxury you don’t always have.” He believed that John, having suffered so much loss in his life, instinctively understood that lesson. “Having allowed that to be our final interaction haunts me to this day,” he admitted.
Despite their differences at the time, Berman today is gracious and generous when recalling Kennedy. “John started out as a good partner,” he reflected. “He intuitively understood the intersection of politics and pop culture better than anyone I have ever known. He worked hard and challenged the status quo. He provided tremendous value well beyond his name. George foresaw what now constitutes an inherent aspect of twenty-first-century American culture. It’s sad he’s not here to see it, but even though the magazine did not survive, the original premise ultimately came true. For John, that is a powerful legacy.”
* * *
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Despite the turmoil, John remained focused on getting issues onto the newsstands. Advice and criticism flowed from all sides: there was too much pop culture, and the colorful covers were a distraction; there was too much politics in the magazine and too few celebrities. John’s leadership also came under scrutiny, with some deeming him too cautious and unable to take risks. In actuality, there was nothing cautious about John’s handling of the magazine. He had determined to chart his own way and trust his own instincts, as revealed by his willingness to challenge both David Pecker and Michael Berman. On several occasions, he also overruled the advice of his senior editors. This new decisiveness did not mean that John always made the right choices—given the magazine’s trajectory, he clearly did not—but it demonstrated a strong backbone and commitment.
One of Berman’s complaints was that John never used his clout to persuade President Clinton to appear in the magazine. But Clinton’s absence did not stem from a lack of effort on John’s part. His first request to the White House came just weeks after George’s founding. He asked for permission to show readers photos depicting “the thrill of being inside the President’s own airplane.” The request was denied because guidelines stated that photos of the interior of presidential/state aircraft represented a security risk. Two months later, John wrote the president a note thanking him for sharing his “wonderful remembrance” of George Wallace for their first issue. “I have been a bit reluctant to approach your office in the context of George magazine, since you have already done so much for our family. However, you are at the center of American politics, and we’d be honored to have you in the magazine in the future, if it suits you.”
After the first issue launched, John pitched two ideas to the White House. On November 3, 1995, he wrote White House Press Secretary Michael McCurry to ask if Richard Ford, the author behind the popular book Independence Day, a powerful meditation on a man’s midlife crisis, could pen a profile of the president. He asked that Ford be given access to Clinton for a week, following him when he traveled away from the White House as well as having three interview slots. “We realize that this is a substantial request, but if this piece is to have the insight, feeling, and depth that we envision, it is paramount that the President and Mr. Ford have sufficient time in which to become comfortable with each other.” John planned to run the story in the magazine’s fourth issue, which would hit newsstands in late March. Given the time frame, Ford would need access during the first few weeks of
December. The second request was for the president to allow David Kennerly, President Gerald Ford’s White House photographer, to conduct a one- or two-day photo shoot.
John did not shy away from using flattery to win Clinton’s favor: “We would like to show our readers a side of the President that they rarely see in candids—his warmth, his humor, his personal style of governing, his intensity—all in the context of the work environment.” John wanted the photos to lead off the fourth issue under the title “American Spectacle.”
The deadlines themselves were enough to prevent either opportunity. In the margin of the request to shoot the photos by the third week in November, McCurry wrote, “Pretty well kills it.” He then circulated John’s memo around the White House communications office with the note, “Risky, of course, but what do people think? Too much?” Don Baer, the White House director of communications, nixed the idea, scribbling, “No way.”
The Clintons liked and respected John, but they did not find George sufficiently serious to deserve a presidential appearance. Clinton, however, was eager to maintain his association with the Kennedys and to bring John into his administration, so he appointed him to serve two terms on the President’s Committee on Mental Retardation. It was a natural fit for John, given his work with Reaching Up.
John also failed in his efforts to recruit Hillary Clinton for the July 1996 cover celebrating the twenty most fascinating women in politics. When she turned him down, John hatched a new idea. “I think we should dress up Madonna as my mother,” he told Rose. “Wouldn’t that be a riot? We’ll have her in the pillbox hat, sitting on a stack of books.” It was the kind of idea that no other editor would have proposed, especially because John’s colleagues were still trying to understand how much of his family legacy was fair game and how much was off-limits. A few editors warned that the public might take offense at him parodying his mother. John had no such concerns. “If it doesn’t bother me, why should it bother anyone else?”
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